


tracing me back to you

by 21stCenturyHero



Series: from me to you, 200 years in the future [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ala Mhigo (Final Fantasy XIV), Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Disabled Character, Disabled WoL, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:08:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26720428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/21stCenturyHero/pseuds/21stCenturyHero
Summary: The walls around them crumbled and fell, and the days passed by in the blink of an eye. The hot Gyr Abanian summer changed into a mellow winter typical of southern Eorzea, and before either of them realized, the years had dragged on as if by a storm, leaving them confused and disheveled and pulling away their masks and pretences, but making them wiser and stronger in their old age — and as they climbed up those same steps again and again, they had hand in unlovable hand, like it should always have been.As flowers bloom in Ala Mhigo and they laze away their day of rest, two boys two hundred years in the future no longer remember what it was like to stand on opposite sides of a war they couldn’t win.
Relationships: Zenos yae Galvus & Warrior of Light, Zenos yae Galvus/Warrior of Light
Series: from me to you, 200 years in the future [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944658
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	tracing me back to you

**Author's Note:**

> Even in the most rotten wood, a flower might bloom.

No matter how much time had passed, they found themselves walking those same steps as always.

The walls around them crumbled and fell, and the days passed by in the blink of an eye. The hot Gyr Abanian summer changed into a mellow winter typical of southern Eorzea, and before either of them realized, the years had dragged on as if by a storm, leaving them confused and disheveled and pulling away their masks and pretences, but making them wiser and stronger in their old age — and as they climbed up those same steps again and again, they had hand in unlovable hand, like it should always have been. Long gone were the days of the Empire, and those who were yet to be born would soon forget about the reign of the King of Ruin; instead, the anthems and hymns spoke about the graces of the Republic and the Rebellion, courageous fighters who freed Ala Mhigo from the thorns of tyranny, those who rose like stars in the kind night sky, gathering around the one who would shepherd them, guide them, deliver them.

_The Warrior of Light._

_A hero takes sword in hand, clasping a gem to his heart._

— and no matter how many times he beheld his face, he still found himself transfixed by his beauty.

The painting was an old thing, a beautiful thing, a _wretched_ thing; the hero rose his sword high, pointing towards the sun — the shining star that would lead Ala Mhigo to a new dawn, like the one that his ancestors followed to the shores of Gyr Abania — and surrounding him, painted in the same color as the broad strokes that flowed into his crimson attire, was a raging storm of blood, crashing down and leaving nought but tears and ash in its wake. Scattered, the weapons of his comrades and enemies alike littered the background as if they were petals from falling flowers, unimportant and forgotten, forged to be broken beneath time’s ever ongoing march. And yet, despite all that, all the loss, all the violence, all the sadness and all the tears _,_ the Weapon of Light treated on.

It made his heart _soar._

Before the portrait, all the works in the gallery seemed monotone in comparison — commissioned some two hundred years ago by a prime minister whose name he no longer remembered to commemorate the anniversary of Ala Mhigo’s independence, it had decorated the halls of the old palace ever since, not being moved even after the building was converted into a museum. In a way, the Warrior still kept guard, watching over the people he loved so dearly — the young and the adventurous, people from all of Eorzea, and Ilsabard and beyond, coming from all across the world to congregate at the heart of the city, to walk its streets and to bask in its warmth, for today again all weapons lied down abandoned and gathering dust, left to rot away and decay as people called themselves free.

 _It’s a beautiful world,_ he could hear his companion speak with a tiny smile, and he wondered if the heroes of eld somehow sounded like him.

“Koh’a,” Zenos called, looking down and searching for the mess of azure hair, only to find that the Miqo’te was long gone, spirited away by his own whimsical impulses.

The boy took a deep breath, shaking his head in silent disapproval.

He couldn’t have gone far.

He spared the painting one last look before leaving the room, its mismatched golden and blue eyes peering into him like they knew something he didn’t, gleaming cold like singing steel, and he pressed on through the gallery, descending its steps and walking by the faces of the great warriors and heroes of the story of Hydaelyn — all looking at him, judging him for what he was worth, as if he had lost the rights to traverse those hallowed halls long ago due an unspeakable sin; in the gardens, Commander Hext of the Rebellion, who silently gazed at the passersby and uttered the words “Liberty or Death” to urge those who came after to never forget, seemed to resent him, looking down from up above in the alcove her statue was located, with her katar pointing towards the afternoon sky.

 _Coward,_ she seemed to scream at him.

But those were memories of long ago, weren’t they? Memories that he no longer remembered, that no longer belonged to him.

— and outside, it was a beautiful day.

The sun shone above, illuminating all of the creation, with the warm weather being offset by the gentle breeze, and there few clouds in the infinite blue sky that stretched away endlessly; at the very heart of Ala Mhigo, the crowds passing by were bustling, iddlying away their day of rest, congregating together in the shops and museums of the historical district, where so long ago blood was shed and spilled — and now what remained was the steel and the stone, the bare bones upon which Ala Mhigo rebuilt itself.

What a sight! Oh, how he could get drunk in the city, to take his companion’s hand in his own and get lost amidst the endless streets and alleys as if they were the adventurers of eld, uncovering the nooks and crannies of a new land! And if the night were to fall, that would be alright, for they had each other and the moon always shone brightly over those she favored.

But alas, it was not his most pressing concern.

Lost amidst the chaos of the city, he found him in its quiet corners, following a ramp up to a small garden where merchant stalls were settled around a fountain long dry — and where, from his vantage point, the boy in the wheelchair observed the city bellow with a sleepy disposition; examining his profile revealed soft features, and albeit his face seemed young, his eyes betrayed what burned inside him.

“Took you long enough,” he complained, lazily turning his head to look at his only companion and just the sight of him was enough to make Zenos’ lips curl ever so slightly — slightly, discreetly, sincerely.

“Koh’a,” Zenos called again, and the boy pruned up at the sound of his name, letting out a lengthy sigh as if holding his breath or disapproving the tone of his friend. “You need to stop disappearing like this.”

“But you’ve found me, haven’t you?” he asked, resting his face in a hand and daring to smile that shit eating grin of his, as if this was a game, or a joke at Zenos’ expense. “Like you always do.”

And wasn’t that the everlasting question? For Zenos would find his way back to Koh’a, no matter how much time had passed — he would find his way back to him after two hundred years, he would find his way back to him after eons, he would find his way back to him after an eternity — like it always had been, since that fateful day in the riverbed of Anyder, overseeing the sunset.

But it was not like he knew that.

“Walk with me, Zenos,” the boy suggested, turning around his wheelchair back towards the ramp, and Zenos — like always — couldn’t muster the courage to tell him no.

He sighed, and soon followed.

———

The daylight would be gone soon.

Hence why, the Lochs in front of them looked stunning, as if burning like the evening sun and stealing Zenos’ breath away — and it was almost enough to make him want to cry, as if the circular ring of fire in front of him was a forgotten childhood memory which he had long ignored, burying it ever deeper into the dark corners of his mind.

And maybe indeed it was — the ruins of something beautiful and majestic, but that no one remembered.

At his side, Koh’a ditched his wheelchair to walk a couple steps, prompting Zenos to raise a worried hand to his back. “Careful!” the boy warned, but his companion simply snorted, guiding him further like a magnet; the Miqo’te sat by the railings that separated them from certain death, staring towards the horizon from atop the walls of Ala Mhigo, and below him, the sprawling metropolis never slept: it was a brief moment of stillness as their day of rest came to a close, as tomorrow they would resume their usual schoolings, but today they could simply be. And for a long while, Koh’a Awandah _was_ — calm, still, peaceful.

No fight left to fight.

Only this life left to live.

A brief moment of simple, genuine happiness.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” the boy raised his voice to ask, and Zenos realized that sitting at his side, in a stunning evening like that, it was hard to disagree.

“I’m happy,” he admitted, in turn, in a low voice. For how else he could _voice_ it? To have met him, to have befriended him, to have had the chance to walk by his side — he was truly, truly _happy._

For the world was a beautiful world, and Koh’a Awandah was too kind.

“I’ve been thinking about your offer,” Koh’a admitted, intertwining his fingers close together as he spoke, and his face was a mask: impassive, with eyes burning bright as if the steel of a blade as they reflected the evening sun. It stole his breath away, and it was only when he saw the faintest hint of a curve in his lips that he dared to breathe again. “Let us go, Zenos. Let us go to Ilsabard!”

— and then a smile, a beautiful, wonderful, blinding smile.

“Won’t you complain about the cold?” he asked, flabbergasted.

_And no matter how many times he beheld his face, he still found himself transfixed by his beauty._

“No,” Koh’a assured him, and whatever existed between them, it was about to begin — slowly, then crashing as if the waves of the sea against his chest, threatening to drown him with their sheer violence — for he was truly glad. “Not while I have your hand to hold.”

Because now, they were free.

**Author's Note:**

> Like always, you can find me on twitter! https://twitter.com/21stcenturyher0


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